In Fair Manhattan
by Marauder-In-Disguise
Summary: Spoilers for season five's 'Reckoner' - Rossi says nothing happened in Manhattan...but nothing is kind of a relative term, don't you think? Especially in matters of the heart...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N – So what exactly did happen in Manhattan? Romance *gasp* - Marauder is willingly writing (kinda) romance…check the sky for flying bacon, people!**

**Disclaimer – Surprisingly, despite my best efforts, Criminal Minds is still not mine. And neither, really, is the title; if you know your Shakespeare, you'll get where it came from…**

The heady scent of cigarette smoke wafted through the old fashioned, wood panelled bar of the small hotel as the members of the midnight crowd nursed their fifth, sixth, seventh drinks of the evening. A small window above the counter had been opened early in the evening to try and combat the heat of the unusually warm Manhattan evening, but the breeze blowing through and unsettling the clouds of smoke – enough to slam the door on the other side of the room - didn't seem to be bothering anyone enough to have the window closed. The same could be said of the noise coming in from the street; typical, New York noises streamed through the gap into the relative silence of the room but no one seemed to hear them. The horn of the taxi, the yells of groups of young people out for the evening – nothing was enough to stir any of the drinkers from their solitary contemplation. The world was in the bottom of the glasses that they gazed at and into, in the amber and red liquids that they sipped, and nothing else could get in. Not then.

The bartender had long ago dimmed the lights, even though he knew that the people in his care past eleven pm needed no reminding that night had come and they should be sleeping. The man was old, working in a bar of some sort or another for so long that he could spot an insomniac from a hundred feet away. These were the people who paid for hotel rooms, because if they didn't they would have to leave the bar at half eleven, with no real intention of using them until they found themselves falling in the door at some godforsaken hour in the morning. He imagined that there was something about an empty room in a nameless hotel that did nothing to help give some evidently troubled people the peace they needed for just a few hours or so; the anonymity of it, the fact that the bed was cold and the walls painted a colour that no one in their right mind would choose for themselves – it all added up to make the experience one that the bartender himself would never willingly choose to put himself into. He hated hotels. Hated them with a passion.

He finished polishing the last glass from the dishwasher and placed it carefully on the shelf, watching from the corner of his eye as the youngest person in the bar – a boy with ID that said he was just twenty one – stood up slowly and wandered out, half of his sixth beer abandoned on the table. He would be alright, the bartender decided, if he could leave a drink halfway through and remove himself from the bar when he'd had enough. He'd put so many kids – barely old enough to even be in the city by themselves – into taxis, slipping an extra five bucks to the driver to ensure that the guy made sure his passenger actually made it in their front door, that he always appreciated it when one seemed able to think for themselves. But then, kids tended to be resilient; they bounced back, because that was the nature of being young. It was the older people in his lair that he was concerned for; the people who were trying so hard to find something that alcohol and cigarettes could never provide them with.

There were four of them, now that the boy had left, and the bartender knew how much each of them had drunk since they took their seats and how much more he was likely to give them before he got them gently escorted to their rooms for the rest of the night. There was one woman, aged about thirty five, dressed for business and on her fifth glass of red wine. Every two minutes, she would pick up the phone that rested at her elbow – even though no one had heard it make any noise since she first arrived – and check the screen, the soft greenish glow on her face more pronounced now that it was darker in the room. And then she put it carefully down and took a sip of her drink. He wasn't going to let her have anymore; when she came back for a refill, he would gently enquire as to her problem and try to talk her into going to sleep it off. It was always that sort that he knew he could help; the ones who had some outward sign of the pain they were in. It was easier to choose his balm when he could see the wound. This girl was waiting for someone, and all he had to do was convince her that the bastard would call eventually, when he realised what he was missing out on. Yes. This one he could help.

Two of the men were old like himself; at least sixty, if not more. On their sixth and seventh beers respectively. With these two, he was unlikely to interfere until they literally could not stand up to walk to the bar, and then he'd call reception and have them taken to bed. It wasn't that he cared any less for men of his own age – in fact, it was quite the opposite – but he knew how damn stubborn they could be. Unless they asked for his ear, he would never offer it, and advice would never be forthcoming either. Old men had seen enough of life to know that drinking, heavily and alone, was never an ideal, but then they had also seen enough to know exactly what they were doing and, as a peer rather than an older, wiser shoulder to cry on, he believed he had no right to interfere. This type of customer always intrigued the bartender most, because he could never tell what they were staying at the hotel for. Never.

The last person, a younger man perhaps in his mid - forties, was the only one sat at the bar, in the same seat he had been in since seven pm. A copy of the evening newspaper and a book were placed at his elbow; he'd read the paper early in the game and spent about three minutes looking at the crossword before he gave up, folded the newspaper and put it to one side. The book he had picked up repetitively, read a few pages of and then put down, up until about half past ten and then he'd given up altogether. He was on his sixth scotch of the evening but his resolve was impressive to say the least; when he'd stood up to go the bathroom, there was no hint in the way he moved that he had even had one drink and he seemed lucid whenever he called for another scotch. This was the one that the bartender was really interested in that evening; everything about the man, from the neat trim of his just-greying, short beard to the suit jacket worn with open necked shirt and jeans, radiated law enforcement. The bartender just knew. And the only ones who frequented hotels like this one were FBI agents. He'd had a fair few interesting discussions with a lot of them over the years, and he would have already gently instigated a conversation with this one if it weren't for the distinct aura of foreboding that seemed to surround him. This was a man who just wanted to be left alone. In between his sips of scotch, he was playing absently with what looked to be a bracelet or a necklace; he also wasn't wearing a wedding ring, and so the bartender wondered whether he had taken the jewellery, been given it or had it hurled at him by whatever ex-lover it surely belonged to. Judging from the wistful look on his face, it probably hadn't been handed over in a friendly, accommodating kind of way; much more likely it was thrown his face in a moment of passionate conflict and now he kept it as a trophy, a reminder of what he had lost, in a way that only the most masochistic would ever understand.

As the clock struck half past twelve, the main door swung open and a column of light from the reception momentarily spilt into the room and fell on the hands of the man at the bar. The jewellery glinted before the door shut and the room was once again in semi darkness. The woman walked quickly to the opposite end of the bar, pulling out her purse before she had even finished sitting down. The lonely drinkers all studiously ignored her, an unspoken pact that everyone in their situation seemed to have made with one another, and only the bartender looked at her face. She was beautiful, a fact he could readily acknowledge even as he noted the grey streaks around her temples and the wrinkles forming around her bright, laughing eyes. She smiled warmly at him.

"A white wine please, and whatever you would like for yourself."

"Thank you kindly," the bartender smiled back, reaching for the already half used bottle of white from earlier in the evening. The woman looked impassively around her – obviously not a frequent member of the midnight club – until her eyes fell on the man at the bar. She shook her head sadly, a half smile still gracing her features, and turned back to the glass placed carefully in front of her. She paid the bartender and, when he handed over her change, she raised her voice slightly as she said, "Thank you very much."

Neither of them missed the movement of the other man as his head jerked quickly up, looking wildly in their direction and showing perhaps for the first time that evening that he had actually had something to drink. He knocked his paper sideways and his book to the floor when he turned.

"Em?" he rasped, standing quickly and coming towards her, "My God, is it really you?"

"I guess so," she grinned, standing to meet him and grabbing his hands the moment he was within reach, "Hello David."

The man was silent for a minute, staring at the woman in front of him with eyes that suddenly were no longer dull as they had been all evening, before he whispered again, "God, it is you."

As the woman moved to embrace the man called David, the bartender turned away and found something more interesting to do with the bottles along the back shelf. This seemed like a very personal reunion, if the man's reaction was anything to go by, and he had no right or inclination to play voyeur. He stayed that way for as long as it took them to move away from the bar to a quiet table in the corner and then dared to turn around and eye them carefully. The man still looked slightly dumbstruck, the alcohol now apparently really taking a hold in the light that this beautiful woman seemed to cast over him. Wondering vaguely if she was the one that the jewellery belonged to and how she fit into the equation if she wasn't, the bartender noticed his business woman stand up and wander slowly in his direction. He turned to her, already planning how best to persuade her to call it a night, and for a moment, the couple at the table was forgotten.

**A/N – Stay tuned, sports fans. Updates soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**For disclaimer, see chapter 1**

_Fifteen years previously…_

It was a big church wedding, just like the one she had always said she was going to have. He'd given Julie the slip for the weekend, lied about going on a golf weekend with Max, and instead gone home. It was raining when he got there, late on Friday evening, and his mother had answered the front door to a drowned rat. She tutted and reached out to embrace him there on the doorstep. She knew why he was there.

"Oh bambino," she sighed into his shoulder, "I knew to expect you. I've made up the spare bed."

She pulled him into the hall and helped him take off his dripping coat, hurrying off to hang it on the back of one of the dining room chairs. He let her fuss over him; let her cajole him into his old dressing gown that he had left on the day he moved out, let her feed him coffee and toast, even let her dry his hair with a towel. She went about this task vigorously, as she had done when he was a child, only this time it wasn't punishment for getting so dirty that he needed a bath. She was trying to incite a response because, since the moment he knocked on the door, he hadn't said a word.

"David," she said softly, "Please speak to me."

"I'm sorry, Mama," he murmured, "I was just thinking, that's all."

"Does Julie know you're here?"

"No."

"It's okay. I'll cover for you."

He smiled at her fierce expression and reached out to take her hand.

"Am I stupid, Mama? Do you think I should go home?"

"You are home," she shrugged, "You know what I think of you calling Virginia of all places home. But in answer to your real question, I don't think you are stupid."

"But she's getting married," he sighed, tracing his finger round the edge of the coffee mug. It was the Knicks one; his late father's favourite. It was chipped and stained with age but his mother treasured it and only got it out for the most important of occasions. Occasions that apparently included the shattering of a dream.

"I know she is, bambino," she said, then hesitated before adding, "What have you come to do?"

At the worried look on her face, he shook his head firmly.

"I'm not here to ruin it for her, Mama. I gave up that right a long time ago. I just had to see her. One more time."

"She's not dying, David."

She gathered up the plate and mug for washing and he trailed her into the kitchen, hanging back and watching as she tidied up.

"She's not dying, Mama. I know. I just- I can't let her do-"

"I know, bambino. You don't have to explain yourself to me."

_**-MANHATTAN-**_

It was easy to sneak into the church, once he had found it; the FBI would have some trouble if they couldn't train their agents to make themselves invisible. It wasn't a Catholic church, he noted with a pang; it seemed that he wasn't the only one to feel betrayed by his faith as of late. It was relatively easy to find the room where the bridal party was putting the last minute touches to their outfits – Emma's sisters were loud enough to rouse the dead buried in the enormous yard outside. He hovered outside of the heavy wooden door for what seemed like an age. The last thing he wanted to do was alert the rest of the tribe to his unwelcome presence. He needed Emma on her own, if only for a few minutes.

As he stood, he tried to organise his thoughts. What was he going to say when he managed to speak to her? None of it seemed enough. He was pleased for her? He hoped she would be happy? It could have sounded sincere, he pondered, if he really meant it. But he didn't and she'd be able to tell, just like every other time that he lied to her. So should he tell the truth? That he was so angry he could barely see straight and he didn't even know if it was directed at himself or her? Or should he go for something more neutral – throw himself at her mercy – and tell her he was sorry? She could take that either way.

As it happened, he didn't get the chance to speak to her. The sisters never left her alone. So in the end he snuck into the back pew and hoped no one would spot him. He didn't recognise any of the people sharing his perch and assumed they were people who had come into Emma's life since he left for the marines all those years before. He ignored their curious stares – even they, who knew Emma least of all the people in the church, could sense an invading presence – and stared determinedly at the man stood by the altar talking nervously to the best man. Casting his mind back to his own wedding day to Julie, he realised that he could in no way relate to this groom; this groom, he suspected, had found his true love in the woman he was going to marry. Julie wasn't his true love, if one were inclined to believe in things like that, and he knew it. He did love her, in a way, but it was in a comfortable kind of way. She never made his heart pound or his throat tighten just by looking at him. She was a mistake, plain and simple, and she knew it as well as he did. It was only a matter of time before they parted ways and she found someone who deserved her kindness and quick wit more than him.

Because if there was one thing he didn't deserve, it was someone else he could mess up beside himself.

The ceremony was elegant and well planned, just as he would have expected from Emma, and it was almost the end before he managed to ruin it. Just as Boyd was saying his vows, Emma, as though she could feel eyes on her that didn't belong, looked straight at him.

And then, with nothing more than a faint crease that crossed her forehead, she looked away again.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thanks for the alerts, guys!**

**For disclaimer see chapter one**

The first thing Emma said, once they had sat down, was not intended to hurt him. In fact, it was just a friendly observation, one that she could have no idea would prod so perfectly at the wound he had been obsessively protecting for all the years that they were apart.

She said, "It's been too long, David."

"It sure has," he nodded, his fist clenching under the table, "What are you doing in Manhattan?"

She didn't answer him immediately, choosing instead to take a sip of wine and use the pause to try and work out why he'd been so abrupt in changing the subject. David didn't like crap, that much she knew, and it occurred to her that in his drunken state with heightened emotion, he may simply have a problem with the sentimentality of her statement. She didn't see the fist clench or notice the set of the jaw. She wasn't looking for them.

"I'm here on a case," she shrugged, "Murder charge that got all the way to the High Court. The defence thinks they can nail me to the wall but I've got a plan. I'm going to take the bastard down."

She was half joking of course, the tell – tale glow of amusement in her eyes testament to that, but there was still a certain fire to her words that betrayed the mind-set of someone who truly loved their career. David gazed at her as she spoke, amazed that in all the years since he had seen her, she didn't seem to have lost any of the youthful passion she first had for her job. She'd always known what she wanted to do, even when they were barely teenagers, and she'd made it happen through hard earned scholarships to colleges that she most certainly couldn't afford to pay for.

"I don't doubt that for a minute, Em," he said, returning her smile as best he could, eying her slender fingers play contentedly over the stem of her wine glass. Her warmth left damp fingerprints in the condensation on the glass, and David was suddenly very thirsty. He excused himself and lurched to the bar, the order for a scotch on his lips before he had even taken the last step. The bar tender, an old man with warm, chocolate brown eyes, didn't move immediately and David thought he hadn't heard him.

"Same again, please."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, son."

"I beg your pardon?" Dave stared at him as he leaned in closer as though to not be heard.

"I said I don't think that's a good idea."

"What would you know?" Dave snapped, the alcohol that had been lying dormant now singing in his veins, "Get me a scotch."

"No. You've had enough."

"I'll say when I've had enough," he said, leaning heavily on the bar in what he hoped was a vaguely menacing pose. The bar tender didn't look uncomfortable under his stare; rather he returned it and then some, his arms crossed in defiance. They stood for a while like that, until something in Dave's resolve gave up and he sat heavily on one of the stools before the world span too much for him to be able to stay on his feet.

"I need a drink," he whispered.

"You can have water, juice, even a coffee if you want," the man said, gesturing to the mugs on the shelf behind him, "But I'm saying that you don't need any more of this stuff in you. That woman of yours is having much the same effect, as far as I can tell."

Dave flushed so red that it was almost purple, his eyes staying on the bar as he whispered, "Coffee please. And she's not my woman."

"Well, whatever she is," the bar tender shrugged, a coffee on the bar almost before Dave noticed him moving, "You got it bad, boy. And trust me, you don't need anything to be clouding your judgement."

Without another word, Dave handed over some money and nodded once to the man. He could feel the old man's eyes on his back the whole way back to the table, taking his time so as not to stumble and spill the precious nectar from the mug in his trembling hand. Emma was waiting patiently, sipping her wine and examining the artwork on the wall above her head. Her eyes fell on his coffee mug, clutched tightly in his hands and she nodded.

"You read my mind, David."

"Em?"

"I was going to suggest that you give up on the scotch for the evening. How much have you had?"

"Three," he lied, looking her straight in the eye. She didn't have to say anything, just kept looking at him until he buckled and corrected himself, "Six."

"Hard case?" she asked sympathetically, reaching out to take his hand across the table. It was warm, almost to the point of hot, and she assumed that he had been holding the boiling coffee too tightly. He looked down at their joined hands for a moment before he spoke.

"When is it ever not hard?"

"Touché. But that doesn't stop it being rather sad that you're getting pissed all alone in a hotel bar."

"I'm not alone anymore," he pointed out, having trouble getting beyond the fact that she was still holding his hand, "You're here."

"And you lay off the drink," she laughed, "I'm glad to see you're still as contrary as you always were."

"That's just a nice way of saying I'm a difficult bastard," Dave said, surprising himself with the ease that he slipped back into their old banter, "Which is what all three of the exes put down as one of the many reasons for getting the hell out of my life."

Emma's easy expression faltered at his words and, as she took her hand away on the pretence of having a sip of her wine, Dave immediately felt guilty. That wasn't part of their routine. He'd deviated from the script too early on and now he was going to suffer for it. Not that he probably didn't deserve to but that wasn't the point.

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that, David."

"It's true," he shrugged.

"I know but-" she paused, searching for the right words, "I just don't like it, that's all."

"I'm sorry, Em," he said sincerely, "I'll knock it off. So how have you been? Really?"

As she spoke, he watched her carefully, trying to absorb fifteen years of dormant friendship in just a few minutes. She was aging much better than him, he noted wryly; apart from some grey hairs and shallow wrinkles, she looked much the same as the last time he had seen her. Her delicate face, framed by the fussy lace of a wedding veil, was one thing that he didn't think he'd ever forget. He'd imagined, privately of course, what Emma might look like in a wedding dress, walking demurely up the aisle towards him and their old pal Jimmy who would of course be asked to marry them. Jimmy would pat him on the shoulder and whisper something comforting as Emma smiled at them, kissing her father on the cheek and taking her place besides them. He'd stumble through the ceremony, not giving himself enough credit to hold himself together in the face of her beauty and the weight of the moment itself, and then Jimmy would pronounce them man and wife, and he'd take a deep breath and lean in and then…

But that's where the fantasy stopped, because he'd never kissed her and he didn't think that he could ever imagine something like that. It didn't matter, not when he could comfort himself that one day, someday, he would be allowed to find out. Despite what she said, it had never occurred to him that maybe he wouldn't get to call her his. That maybe that wedding scene wouldn't belong to him. That maybe she was right. That maybe-

"David, are you listening?" Emma's voice, warm despite her words, cut through his alcohol and history addled brain and he nodded quickly.

"Of course."

"What was the last thing I said?"

He stared at her for a moment, noting the upward twitch of her lips, and deciding he was safe to admit the truth.

"I don't know, Em. I'm sorry."

"That's OK," she said, her voice half amused, half concerned, "Are you alright, David?"

"Yes. It's just a – I never expected to see you here. It's thrown me, that's all."

"I understand. You're a bit of a shock yourself, you know. After the last time, I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again."

He looked up sharply from his coffee, the wistful edge to her voice catching his attention. It wasn't a tone he was used to in her and it wasn't one he took lightly.

"I'm sorry, Em. I shouldn't have been there."

"The only reason I didn't invite you was because I didn't want to hurt you," she murmured, "Why did you have to make it so difficult for…" She paused, deliberately avoiding the word 'us', "Yourself?"

"I needed to see you, Em. One more time."

"You could have come before the wedding day," she said helplessly, reaching out and taking his hand again. It was still hot, and she realised it wasn't the coffee having an effect on him before. His pulse thumped rapidly in the wrist that the very tips of her fingers danced over and she blushed slightly.

Oh God.

Still?

"It was a last minute thing, Em, and I'm sorry," he whispered, leaning in closer and trying to get her to look at him again, "Please forgive me."

"I was never mad at you, David," she lifted her eyes to his, the slightest sheen of moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes, "I missed you, you know. Fifteen years and not a word."

"I'm sorry," he said again, knowing he sounded like a broken – and very insincere – record, but having nothing more he could think of to say, "You didn't deserve that. It wasn't your fault."

"You'd married Julie," Emma said helplessly, grabbing his other hand so she had him trapped, "And I loved Boyd and I knew he loved me. It made sense. But then you-"

Her voice was steadily rising, and David pulled a hand free to place a finger gently over her lips. It was a gesture so tender, so reminiscent of their childhood, that one of the tears that had been threatening ran down her cheek and onto his finger. But there was only one, and she wiped away its trail with a steady hand. A moment of weakness, over almost before it started. So like Emma, David thought. Still so like Emma.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me, Em. You knew we'd end up like we did. It was my fault for not listening. I should have known you were right. You're always right."

"I guess that's why Shakespeare had to kill them," she mused, a far away look on her face.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Romeo and Juliet. He had to kill them because he couldn't handle the what ifs," she smiled weakly, "Coward."

"Oh I don't know," David took a gulp of his coffee for want of anything to take his mind off everything he knew he just hadn't said, "I think he had the right idea. No bloody mess to clear up."

The clock over the bar struck half past one and, with a quick glance around, David realised that they were the only patrons left in the room and that the old bartender was trying very hard to look busy, and uninterested in what the couple at the table in the corner were talking about exactly. He made a snap decision, standing up and pulling Emma to her feet before he could change his mind.

"Come upstairs with me."

David," she blushed, "I can't-"

"Please" he whispered, his arm snaking around her waist, his voice soft in her ear, "Please, Em."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N And so here's the last chapter! Thanks for reading, folks, and I hope you enjoy!**

They made it all the way to the hall outside of Dave's room before either of them spoke again. He hadn't removed his arm from around her waist, not even as they crossed the foyer in front of a receptionist who knew for a fact that they had both checked in alone and so was looking rather too interestedly at the sight in front of her. Emma blushed scarlet as the young woman's eyes followed them into the elevator but Dave looked determinedly ahead of him; if he knew the woman was watching them, he didn't let it show. On the fifth floor, outside of his room, he turned to Emma and noticed that the red colouring had not completely left her cheeks.

"You don't have to come in," he murmured, his words allowing her freedom even as his arm defied him and tightened around her waist, "But I hope you do, even just for a while."

Emma's eyes met his just for a moment as she silently searched his face for a hint of what he was thinking. There was nothing, as she had feared.

"I'm married, David."

"I know."

His reply was inscrutable and impossible to interpret. They were in dangerous territory. She knew this. She knew what she _should_ do. After a beat more, interrupted by nothing more than the faint sound of traffic on the street, she did the exact opposite. She nodded her ascent.

Dave's room was one of the smallest that the hotel had to offer, thanks to the recent budget cuts being made by the Bureau, but there was still room for an armchair to be wedged in between the window and the bed. Emma's sigh as he opened the door was testament enough to her relief at this fact, even before she moved to sit in it. He knew why she was so pleased to see the innocuous looking chair; it meant that she didn't have to sit on the bed. Almost unconsciously, she ran her hands over the lush, deep red fabric that covered the arms of the chair, only stopping when she became aware that David was watching her keenly from across the room. As deliberately as she dared, she stopped and turned to gaze at the artwork above the bed, hoping that he would get the message. It seemed to work; he slipped off his suit jacket and threw it onto the bed, before hightailing it into the bathroom.

He stood for a while, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, and ended up splashing cold water on his face. He wasn't sure why, other than the fact they did it in the movies during moments of intense emotional stress. It didn't help, and as he patted his face and neck dry he ended up feeling hotter and more uncomfortable than he had done before. He loosened a couple of buttons on his collar and tried to breathe deeply, to force some air into his lungs.

Emma.

His Emma.

Here.

Waiting.

Waiting to see why he had asked her up to his room. Oh, he was certain that she had a fairly good idea, but how to tell her that – that he – what she –

Thoughts battled for dominance, tumbling, weaving inside his head, and he felt disorientated enough to grope for the edge of the bathtub and sit down heavily, his head cradled in his hands.

What the hell was he doing? She was married, for Christ's sake. He could just imagine the look on his mother's face if she ever found out that he had even contemplated – And with Emma too, who she had always adored. No. No. He couldn't.

But then –

She had followed him. Willingly. It was her choice…wasn't it? And it wasn't as though it would be a drunken one-night stand, something that meant so little they wouldn't even remember each other's names. This was Emma. Emma, who had loved since he was twelve years old. His mother knew that. She wouldn't begrudge him that, would she? The woman who had held him the one time he had ever let himself cry over his own sorry heart, hushing her great hulking twenty eight year old and stroking his hair, like when he was young and –

"David?" Emma knocked gently on the bathroom door, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he answered gruffly, standing too quickly and swaying on the spot, his eyes screwed up as he fought to quieten his mind and will himself more quickly to sobriety. Emma must have moved away from the door, because the faint creak of bed springs crept into his ears.

The sound seemed to rouse something within him and he tore the door open before the alcohol could regain control and change his mind. Emma's dark eyes followed him fixedly as he crossed quickly to sit on the edge of the bed. He reached out and took her hand.

She was trembling.

"Em, I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"You shouldn't be here. I know you don't want to be, not really-"

She opened her mouth to interrupt but he cut her off, his grip tightening.

"I don't ever want you to do something you regret, Emma. Not on my account."

And then he went silent, the earnestness on his face continuing testament enough that he meant what he said. Mixed feelings fought for control in her belly and, for one horrible moment, she thought she was going to be sick. The warmth in the room, and that emanating from David's body pressed so close to her, was almost unbearable. And she felt guilt, because now only she would know that she had stepped through his door with the intention of doing exactly what she had always thought herself incapable of. She was going to-

David's hand was hot and dry, trapping her own, and as the guilt wriggled inside her - a tiny spear of ice in a pit of fire – his body and his hand and his face were the only things she could bear to think about. David, who she hadn't seen in so long. David, who she loved so much.

David.

She knew then, what she had to do. Just once. She pulled her hand free from his and shuffled even closer, until she could feel his breath tickling her face. Reaching up, she stroked his hair, still thick despite the grey. His whole body tensed the moment she touched him, his sad dark eyes widened in surprise. He'd always had sad eyes; it was one of the first things she remembered noticing about him when they were kids. She allowed her hand to trail down from his hair until she was cradling his cheek and then, before she could change her mind, she leaned in and kissed him. Gently. Sweetly. Almost chastely really, but he relaxed and responded accordingly, allowing his own hand to brush her face, just once.

And then it was over. She pressed her forehead to his, eyes slightly downcast towards their joined hands. She hadn't even felt him reach out for her again.

"Are you sure you won't regret that?" he whispered eventually, running his thumb over her knuckles.

"Never."

He took a deep, if slightly shaking breath and pulled his head reluctantly away so that he could look at her. She smiled, for the first time since the bar, and he resisted the urge to kiss her again. It wasn't his choice; that much he knew. But there was one thing he could do, on this night that he knew was the closest he would ever get.

"I love you Em," he blurted, "I always have. I'm so sorry that I said it too late."

"I love you too," she leaned forwards, her arms around his neck, and whispered, "And I think I always will."

His stomach flooded with an unfamiliar sensation; warmth? Regret? Bittersweet? No – it was peace. Something he had been without for so long, he'd forgotten what it felt like. He kissed her forehead as she pulled away and stood up as if to leave. It didn't hurt though, not like he expected it to, and he joined her for one last embrace.

"Thank you."

"Don't be a stranger, David. Please," she said, her voice catching, "I don't want you not to be around anymore."

"I'll do my best," he nodded, opening the door for her to leave, "He's a lucky man. Anytime he forgets that, send him my way. I'll remind him."


End file.
